Possessions
by Orochimaru-han
Summary: An injured Il Forte Grantz goes to his younger brother, the Octava Espada Szayel Aporro, to be healed.  Then he seeks comfort with Cirucci, only to have that destroyed too.  Grantzcest, Il ForteCirucci, Szayel AporroCirucci torture


Okay, this is a collab fic done with Raigekijin. She's a good friend of mine and a fellow fan of all that is Grantz. She wrote the second and final parts to this story whereas I wrote the first and third parts. Read and review, we'd love to know what you think of our joint effort. And thank you for at least clicking and getting this far!

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Szayel Aporro ran gloved fingers through his hair, the fine strands falling to rest about his face in the same way they lay before. The numbers were off, his calculations wrong, everything had to be reworked. Again. Something had gone wrong somewhere, a small simple mistake that had thrown everything off, caused the experiment to fail by just the most minute fraction. If he had to guess, it wasn't a slip up by one of his fracciones, too much of one chemical, not enough of another, causing everything to go awry.

Hours of research, and still no closer to the end. He would have to take the entire experiment into his own hands, not letting anyone else near until it was completed if he wanted it to succeed. First, however, there were other matters to attend to.

A smile spread across his face, research temporarily set aside for later analysis, and he looked up towards the door. Seconds later, the presence of familiar reatsu was more than that, but an actual Arrancar as Il Forte entered through the double swinging doors.

"Another fight." Szayel Aporro was not asking a question, as he looked the blond numeros up and down. The white uniform was marred by crimson flowers blooming in dozens of places, rips and tears making the once immaculate clothing nothing more than rags. "I trust you at least won?"

Il Forte nodded, eyes ghosting over the stack of papers set before the Espada, before sliding across the floor and up to settle on a spot on the wall to his right. "Of course I won." He was doing an admirable job of seeming nonchalant, but his discomfort at being in the presence of the Octava Espada was obvious. "If you're busy, my wounds are nothing serious, I could have--"

"No, no, I'm not busy at all." Szayel Aporro was around the desk and had his hand resting on the one white piece of uniform left on Il Forte's arm in one fluid movement, guiding his older brother further into the research area and away from the one exit with each step.

The distance growing between Il Forte and the door was palpable to the numeros, the feather light fingers resting on his arm, guiding him, felt like an iron grip, inescapable.

Playing with Szayel Aporro was always a dangerous game, for him at the very least, one that he never knew if his brother was going to enjoy or not. Not that it mattered if Szayel Aporro enjoyed it or not, because the end result varied little. If he did, then there would be pain, and humiliation, if not then there would just be more and more pain.

He had not wanted to come here to have his wounds treated, but he didn't have the choice. Whether his brother wanted to tend to his wounds at the moment or not didn't change that fact. None of the other numeros even remotely skilled with medical practices would so much as look at him unless Szayel Aporro sent him to them. Somehow, despite what lies he told, they knew when he hadn't been to see the Octava first, and the treatment was always a far less pleasant experience under those circumstances.

"Sit here." Szayel Aporro instructed, gesturing at the cold metallic table, the silvery gray surface reflecting the too bright over head lights in muted puddles. He didn't miss Il Forte's flinch as his he boosted himself up onto the slightly higher than sitting level surface. "You've yet again managed to look like you got into a fight with a butcher, one that wields a dull cleaver. I wonder if you aren't just tripping and landing in a pile of jagged rocks, perhaps all these "fights" are false claims to cover up your lack of grace." Without looking, his hand found a set of scissors set on the tool tray next to the table, sterilized and ready for use. "You're clothes aren't cut, they've been torn."

"Would you like to see the remains of my opponent? You'll be lucky to find enough left of him to guess who he was." Il Forte snapped back, his eyes locked onto Szayel Aporro's every movement. He held as still as possible as the scissors began to cut away his already shredded clothing, exposing the various cuts and wounds to open air. In some places the blood had began to clot, sticking to the fabric, and causing fresh rivulets to poor down pale skin when pulled away.

"I wouldn't need to guess, a simple DNA test would be all that was required." The last bits of cloth were removed and placed in a waste bin. "That is, if there is any opponent for me to identify." He was not about to go wander around looking for bits of flesh, existant or not, to catch his older brother in a possible lie. The anger, and helplessness of his personal toy were his true goal. The blond often tried to hide things from him, separate himself and move out of the shadow cast by the younger; he tried to prove himself independent and strong in his own right, like his name suggested. Szayel Aporro found it a necessity to keep Il Forte in his place.

Szayel Aporro's words cut, but the antiseptic he used burned. Another trap with no way out. The less he showed the effects of the stinging substances, the worse the treatment became, until he was practically being given new wounds on top of old; however, the more he shifted uncomfortably, hissed at a particularly painful spot, the longer and more dragged out things became, often ending just the same anyway. He would not give his younger brother the satisfaction of seeing him writhe beneath him today, though. Il Forte was not weak, and he still had his pride.

"I'm sure that, if asked nicely, I could find you a piece?" This was going to go nowhere, which was an acceptable ends to this purposeless argument. How he got his wounds were his business, and they would stay as such, their origins lost in half truths and lies. "Now, please hurry, I have other things to attend to today." A hiss of pain snaked it's way from his lips.

The Espada never paused in his work, never looked up, and seemed not to care for what was being said. "You will leave when I tell you to leave, or you will leave in a body bag." The words delivered with so little emotion, so inanimate as opposed to the usual, sent a shudder through his patient. Muscles contracting and relaxing under his fingertips too small to see, but the feel of it wasn't lost to his expert hands. "They'll have nothing more than the tag attached to tell who you were in that case. I can destroy you so thoroughly that nothing will be left that is actually you."

Il Forte chose to not respond to that, seriousness laced the very posture of the Octava. He was unstable at best, a time bomb waiting for the right time to go off, a serial killer on the verge of snapping, and completely committed to every threat that passed his lips. His cold tone indicated that there would be no games before the threat became a too painful reality.

The blond tilted his head back, exposing lacerations and bruises on his neck. He narrowed his eyes, blinded by the overly bright artificial lighting. Everything here was that way, surrounded in the most perfect, un-flawed white. Their uniforms, the walls, plants, sand, Los Noches itself were all made in this punctures image. Here it was at it's worse. Here it was never dark, there were no shadows cast, and everything was illuminated. The feeling of being exposed creeped along skin, into wounds coursing through veins until it felt as if you hadn't a secret to your name. Perhaps it was truth, seeing as he'd been caught in every lie he'd ever told.

Here he was transparent.

Il Forte bit his lip as cold fingers brushed along one side of his neck, marred skin prickling at the light touch. On the other side brown-red blood was flaking away from from an angry looking cut with every simple movement, the flesh red and slightly swollen, abuse and mistreatment showing plainly. Here it hurt the most, so close to the artery, inches away from his life. This was the mark of carelessness, letting his guard down, and of weakness. With his neck exposed his life was no longer his.

"Stupid, foolish, ignorant." The hand that had been steadying the numeros clamped down over his trachea, cutting off precious oxygen. Szayel Aporro stood over him, face pressed close and anger written over it. "I should kill you." Voice a low hiss, his grip tightened to get his point across. It was impossible to tell what had set off the Espada, though it was obvious it had to do with the nature of the injury. Il Forte's pulse quickened underneath blood tinged fingers. "A wound like this.." He trailed off and tossed the blond down, a dull thud resounding as he slammed flat into the metal table. "If your mental capacity is so low, just get yourself killed next time."

Wounds began bleeding anew from the rough treatment, red pooling brightly over the monotonous surface of the examination table. Szayel Aporro leaned over Il Forte, hands pressed flat to either side of his head, fingers tangling in flaxen locks. "Weak and useless." He glared over his glasses. "That's all you are, and worse, you're dead without me." He straightened, letting the golden strands flow from his fingers like water, eyes distant. "Your name is nothing but a joke, a facade to hide behind. Though other's believe it unquestioningly. I know you, though, I know different, and can see you're every flaw."

A smaller, brighter, examination light was flicked on, and swung so it hung over the table, causing Il Forte to close his eyes against it. "You cannot hide from me. Not your strengths, weaknesses, desires, or nightmares. I can read it in the rate of your pulse, and each breath you take. Or, if I so choose, I can make you tell me. I can even make you want to tell me." Il Forte wouldn't be able to see Szayel Aporro even if he could open his eyes against the harsh light, but he could feel where he was, the closeness of the other. "Tell me brother, what were you thinking?"

There was quiet, not quite silence with the steady low hum of electricity filling the room, Il Forte's breathing seeming too loud in his own ears. He hadn't been thinking, it was not a time for it, just action and reaction. Instinct flowing through him and guiding his actions without consideration for consequence, without thought of future regret. Even now, with what was to come looming over him, he would remain defiant, standing by his actions. "I was thinking to do as I please."

"Is that so? Well then, if that's the path we are following today, allow me to do the same." Il Forte didn't need to see what was happening to feel the pain the ripped the first scream from his lungs.

She was waiting for him outside the Octava's quarters where they bordered against her realm, against the Tres Cifras Zone, perched lightly on one of the tall white pillars, blurrily visible against the shadowed darkness that had descended while he had been among the blinding bright of the labs.

He could swear she was the last person he wanted to see at that particular moment.

Unfortunately, Cirucci Thunderwitch didn't often care whether someone wanted to see her or not.

"Il Forte," She crooned, a voice that seemed so tame compared to the dark whispers of his brother, drawing his gaze up, her form visible if only for the white of her uniform, pale legs crossed and almost draped across the pillar she lay on, a position subservient and tempting to most, but one that only aroused ire in the Numeros.

"Tch," His only reply, refusing to stop for her despite the difference in power that weighed in her favor, despite the uses she had, reminded of the pure ache in his body, the bandages tied tight and stopping bleeding that had become far worse than when he'd first entered his brother's company.

Not one to be ignored, the Privaron leapt down from her perch, landed softly with the rustle of skirt and the light noise of her small booted feet, reached out to tangle her fingers in the shoulders of the uniform he'd re-donned, wrapped thin arms about him and touched gently, softly.

"Why so cold, hmm?" She crooned, pale fingers curving over his throat, over the bandage there enough to bring a low growl from his frame.

"Let go of me, Privaron." He snapped, brushing her from him and making to leave her there, only to be stopped once again by her hands, this time wrapping about pale strands of hair and pulling hard, a yank at his skull that forced his head back though he only moved the slightest, defiant and tempered.

"Why so cold?" She asked again, an expression between a sneer and a pout on her lips. "Little brother didn't like the mark Cirucci left on you?" Her violet gaze fell to the bandages on his neck, the wound matched up to the blade on her hip just as the bruises matched to her lips, her thighs, as rips and scratches matched to her clawed hands, the nails sharp and biting as her words and demeanor.

Il Forte glared at her, felt his body stiffen even further at the reminder of what he'd just gone through, been subjected to, the burning sensation of pain devoid of his own satisfaction. She knew what had happened, she always seemed to, and always managed to be there when it was over, a teasing annoyance with more power than he who dared say such things to him-

"Shut your mouth, Thunderwitch." He warned her, stood to face her and wrenched his hair from her hands, leaving blonde strands behind twined between her fingers.

"Shut it for me." The female dared him, stepped closer, slow, slow, steps as he continued to fix her with an icy gaze, her features, her physique, mostly hidden by shadow but still clear enough, the curve of breast to hip outlined with white, pale bare legs, tawny limb and tempting way of movement. He anticipated the touch, the gentle press of her body against his as she had to balance on the tips of her toes to kiss lightly at his neck, at the bandage.

"Poor Il Forte." The Privaron murmured against a throat he bared to her, if only, he knew, to defy his brother, defy that he would chastise him for making it vulnerable, allowed Cirucci her touch even as one of his own hands move and suddenly clamped down hard on the side of her right breast, tearing a gasp from her painted lips and the feel of a wound reopening beneath his fingers.

"Poor Cirucci." He mocked, not lessening his grip even at the warning noise building in her own throat accompanied even by the press she herself did not lessen against him. "No one will treat an injured Privaron, hmm?"

"Cirucci doesn't need her brother touching her like that." Their words were vicious, there actions more so as indicated by the wounds on each body, her small hands grabbing his wrist and squeezing, dragging his hand from wound to waist.

"I told you to shut your mouth." He responded, his hard grip now on the fabric at her hips and pushing her away from him. "I'm not in the mood for your games tonight." She pouted, refused to budge, and instead let her small hands fall to his hakama, brushing against him with a teasing feathery sensation, enough to make him twitch.

"And Cirucci told you to make her." She whispered, the dark undertone enough to remind him of another voice, though hers promised more pleasure with pain, something to sate and satisfy, not merely condescend and own.

And it was dark. Once again he looked up, the white pillars of her area in Tres Cirfras extending high enough that the tops became lost within the veil of murky black, hidden just as everything she had was hidden, everything with her was some sort of hidden, clandestine, forbidden, wrong somehow but worth it, everything flawed and imperfect hidden by darkness. Her scarred breast where the number five had once lain, hidden by the low level of light. Their wounds, hidden by the play of shadow across the difference between flesh and the stark white uniform that appeared more gray within the confines of such a place.

Here he could not be read.

So he shut her up, grabbed her chin roughly and kissed fiercely, delighted in the feel of her yielding to him, neither in the mood for the violence they'd shared earlier, the bit back cries and flowing blood, instead wanting to revel in the mere instinctual, the press and pull of bodies seeking selfish satisfaction.

It was almost too easy to forget the Octava's ministrations under the Thunderwitch's touch, almost too easy to let the idea that he had been dominated, beaten, by his younger brother yet again when the Privaron let him do the same to her, let him have control, have power, enough to push her against the wall and shove her skirt up, let her lips travel across skin she could break and kill him with even as his hands ghosted over areas the same, the very idea that, should either release their powers in this moment, they could destroy each other, bringing a heady sense of passion to the kind aroused in the mere physical.

"What was the excuse this time?" She managed to breath, smirking in challenge as his hands pushed at her skirt, pushed past bruises he'd left on her thighs, snapping her garters with a pinch and grunting lightly as he pushed her up against the wall until her legs twined around his waist, inviting, a change in mood just as she always had, never knowing whether she would greet a male with a kiss from her lips or from her blade.

"Fight." The Numeros ground out, managed to undo the ties of his hakama despite her damned squirming, fingers leaving further bruising on her skin as he pressed her legs apart, took her there, smirking as the small noises she made reminded him he could control her, could control a situation, not always helpless like he had been beneath his brother, his brother.

"And how badly did you destroy your opponent, hmm?" A breathy whine of a laugh, the distinct discomfort of being used, an outlet for males to vent against, thrust into with quickening breaths and pulse, coupled with her own pleasures, her own noise and invitations.

"No trace of them left." Il Forte smirked, bit her neck until he drew blood, one hand holding her up against the wall and the other ripping the snaps on the front of her uniform as she had ripped his earlier, paying back in kind even as she encouraged his behavior, encouraged his pride, his dominance, willing to let him have it, considering she herself knew all too well what the Octava could do when provoked.

It was a quick, frantic, coupling, all nerves and passions, need and desire, sweat on skin and the flush of arousal, no need to muffle the noise and the cries in the murk of her domain, leaving them slumped lazily against the wall, his face pillowed against her bare chest and eyes half-closed, wanting to succumb to the rare moment of softness she offered him and yet unwilling to accept it least it could be construed as weakness.

She was making some sort of contented noise, drawing her fingers lightly through his hair, wispy touches and a warbling sort of song on her lips, so soft he could barely hear it, though it was the only noise in the black, a noise that could have lulled him in to a heavy slumber had it not been for the soft sound of a boot echoing in the shadow.

"My, my Il Forte. I thought you said there was nothing left of your opponent." A smooth voice, laced with confidence and an undertone of anger pierced through the shadows, cutting down the veil of contentment that had been drawn and destroying the little play drawn out for only the players to see. "Or, perhaps the more important bit was that you said you won? If I were to make an hypothesis based off what I had just witnessed, I would venture to say that that too was a lie."

Il Forte knew that voice before he saw the slight form of the younger Grantz step closer. Perfect white uniform and light hair catching what little light there was and giving the barest of outlines. There was no tenseness in his form, Szayel Aporro had his hands clasped behind his back, resting over his zanpakuto in a mock innocent fashion, only the low thrum in the air, a feeling like prey being watched by a predator was any indication that he could strike at any moment. The unpredictable, volatile personality making a guessing game of the situation.

"Szayel Aporro." His voice was hoarse and weak sounding in his own ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins renewed. Carefully he extracted himself from the tangle of limbs that was Cirucci, as if the distance could undo the deed, save him from the punishment. It was too soon to go back to the Octava's hands, to be a toy once again.

His eyes never left the form of his brother, watching every move, waiting for what might come, or what might be laughed off and forgotten. The Espada's reactions were never what was expected, one moment he'd take offence over something the next it would be beneath his notice. He knew, however, that those sharp, calculating eyes were not on him, they were on the Privaron. She could feel them too, despite none of them being able to see anything in this dark place. He knew Thunderwitch could feel them because she shifted about uncomfortably, covering her own wounds and bruises, though she had not a care for her bare form.

"You realize," Szayel Aporro stepped forward, one small step, boots echoing through the pillars and swallowed by the night, "That lying to the one offering you medical treatment can be potentially fatal?" Another step, cold and reverberating down through Il Forte's very core along with that steady voice. "It could cause the wrong treatment to be given," closer and closer still, "the wrong drugs to be administered," He could see the white of the bone mask, the mock glasses denoting intelligence, now. "or even unnecessary procedures to take place."

Il Forte stood his ground, knowing that even if he were to retreat the end would be the same. "A fight is a fight, no matter who the opponent or what the outcome. You administered the correct treatment, and I will heal just fine." Lies heaped upon lies, a shield from what he knew and what would come. He could only keep himself standing tall in the face of his younger brother, so clear with such little distance between them now, his breath deceptively warm ghosting over his cheek.

"NO!" Anger was written across his features, voice loud and painful in this place that demanded quiet, a reverent sort of feeling for the darkness that cradled and hid secrets. "It's all wrong! You've ruined it, ruined everything, and now I have to fix it." Cirucci was unnoticed to both brothers as she began to slowly step further into the shadows, hiding herself from the Octava's wrath and running to safety. "You've destroyed the perfect science, made a mockery of it with you falsities." A grin that made bile rise in Il Forte's throat spread over the younger Arrancar's face. "First, FIRST, I must get rid of the unexpected variable, the little unpleasantness that has turned everything foul."

With sharp, quick steps, he'd moved faster than Il Forte had ever seen his brother move before, and had the Privaron by the hair, just as she'd had Il Forte before. Szayel Aporro pulled hard, eliciting a cry from the song bird's throat, harsh and and grating. He dragged her back before Il Forte, holding her bent over backwards, perched to look up at an odd angle, blood dripping down her face, like the tear marks printed there, from where she had lost hair and more from the Espada's grip.

"Il Forte," The anger was gone once more, Szayel Aporro's voice calm and almost inviting. "Won't you accompany me back to my lab. It seems there are things we've yet to take care of this evening." Before an answer was receive, because there could only be one, the Octava had turned and headed back to his territory, back into the bright lights and cold sterility he made his domain in.

The blond swallowed, fighting back the sickness that was rising. Everything he didn't do was that much less satisfaction to Szayel Aporro, one less thing to lose and never reclaim. All he could do was follow, follow and watch and wait for his turn to come again, wait for that twisted mind to turn it's attention to him once more.

It wasn't far before they stepped out of the near perfect blackness and into the blinding white again, allowing the Numeros to see the steady crimson trail, dot, dot, dotting down the hall, each step leaving another bread crumb to follow. He could see the twisted look of pain, and the hint of fear on Cirucci's face. She had yet to face the Octava, and though her fate would be different, Il Forte couldn't help the satisfaction welling up deep down inside of him, to know that his suffering would not be singularly his to bare.

It wasn't.

She would say it wasn't right except that technically it was, because Szayel Aporro was Espada, and she was Privaron, he was Numeros, and his orders were to be obeyed, explicitly and without fail. If an Espada commanded you chaste, it was to be done, commanded you suicide, it would be done. Because they had the power, the rank, and that was everything.

Cirucci was reminded of this when the Octava's hands ghosted across her breast, tracing slowly, gravely, the discolored patch of skin where the number five had once been inked, his gaze had cooled, turned from unbridled rage to a sullen apathy quicker than she could follow, unwilling to even move against the pressure of his unfiltered reiatsu pressing against her, the Privaron's own power weaker, a flickering flame next to a bonfire.

"An Espada tore this from you." He finally spoke directly to her, ignored now his brother standing to their left, nerves ragged and standing stiff, gaze locked on his brother and his lover, if she could be called that, as the Octava murmured lightly, almost in a reassuring manner, something that could be taken as comforting if one didn't know the nature of an Arrancar.

"Not you." She mustered rebellion from the hole between her breasts, the fiery attitude she possessed around Privaron, around Numeros, around the Espada she could afford to anger.

"No, no," He conceded, let the cold feel of steel trace against her skin as a scalpel found its way to his hand, following the line of scar tissue once more, "It was Grimmjow, wasn't it?" He didn't miss the twitch, the wince at the mention of that event, because the pale skin pricked against the scalpel blade when she moved, skin still bared from where she- she-

No, he shouldn't think about her touching his brother, no, it would only make him angry again.

"Such a dirty thing." He muttured, let the scalpel continue to trace lazy patterns against her skin, never drawing blood but just enough pressure, he knew how much to apply, to press against the skin enough to pierce the very top layer of flesh, not enough to bleed but just enough to register.

"No dirtier than-" She was cut off when he slapped her, gloved hand colliding hard with her cheek, hard enough that she fell, sprawled at Il Forte's feet in a haphazard attempt at pride when she scrambled to her hands and knees, prevented when her hauled her head back by a grip on hair and bone mask, pressing her back and arching neck painfully until she had to sit back on her rear, shoulders against Il Forte's legs and her own akimbo, eyes wide as the Octava breathed lightly, hot, against her ear.

"You're a whore." He intoned, voice grave and serious as he simply drove the scalpel into her breast, watched her impassively as she cried out, recoiled but was unable to escape, trapped between the Octava and the Quince's legs.

Il Forte did not move.

"Is that all you're good for?" Szayel Aporro watched her, took off one glove, watched her move to wrench the scalpel out, throw it to the ground and began to speak, fury painted on her features, but stopped in shock once more when the Espada's fingers delved between her opened legs, a shudder involuntary in reaction.

"A whore." He intoned again, felt where his brother had been moments earlier, where many had been, bare fingers pressing, stroking, thrusting as the Privaron grit her teeth, bit her bottom lip and turned her head, unwilling to utter noise, give in to that sensation in a position of such shame.

"A whore only good for dirtying a Numeros." His gaze was raised, however. The Espada wasn't looking at Cirucci, no, his gaze was locked with Il Forte's, his daring, challenging, while the older's was torn between disgust and anger.

"Only good for trash." Szayel-Aporro wound her tight; waited until she was writhing, knowing she wanted to beg him to stop, to not stop, both, and neither, before he withdrew his hand, left her so close to the edge of satisfaction but stopped, brought his fingers up to dab at her breast, catch the blood there and lick his fingers, still looking up at the one who shared his name.

"Come back tomorrow, Il Forte." He smirked, watched the Privaron slump against the Numeros' legs in his peripheral vision, she was glaring, face flushed, he didn't care. She wasn't anything to him, merely a tool to manipulate another with.

By tomorrow he would have those reiatsu bugs ready.


End file.
